The Good Man
by CharlotteCumberbatch
Summary: Five people Sherlock has a something in common with, and one person he wishes he was more like. [JohnLock & JimLock/Sheriarty] Rated M for mature themes: drug use, self harm, & dub-con.


**This might be a bit character-study-ish.**

**[Five people Sherlock has a things in common with, and one person he wishes he was more like.] Implied JohnLock & JimLock/Sheriarty, implied self harm (not graphic but still, there's your warning). Enjoy, my lovelies.**

**xoxox **

**1. Molly Hooper**

_He had this feeling all over his skin sometimes, like he's just not safe, and he curls in on himself. It started when he was a child, and took him years to get to the point where he knows when he's being even more prickly than normal. He looks for the signs now, like when even Molly gives him a wide berth, getting his coffee without asking and giving him that knowing look: 'You look sad when you think he isn't looking' as she said once, and Sherlock felt ice through his veins because Molly Hooper knew more than he wanted to let on, and he although he'd long since figured that she was more observant than the average moron around here, he didn't think she'd say anything, even when she noticed his trembling hands or that his skin was paler than usual._

_In Sherlock, she remembers her fathers last months and in Molly he remembers the lack of self esteem from before he started to hide behind a mask of stoic arrogance that never truly met his eyes. "Why don't you just be yourself?" she asked once as she checked his arms for fresh cuts and needle marks, he just shook his head because honestly, how can any man be himself if he barely knows who he is to begin with? _

Sherlock and Molly had a lot in common, like sometimes saying the wrong things and the flecks of gray in their eyes.

**xoxox**

**2. James 'Jim' Moriarty**

_The idea that anyone might like him, let alone love him, baffles Sherlock. It was one of those rare things that he just couldn't get his brilliant mind around, because no matter how often he succumbed to this thing he had with Moriarty, it wasn't love; it was no secret that they hated each other with a passion but that passion was what drove every bruising kiss and every shooting pain up his spine. It was hatred, yet also a mutual understanding that went way back to University when people would go so far as to change their timetables just to avoid the hyperactive Irish psychopath and the junkie with curly hair and sad eyes who deduced everything from which professors were cheating on their spouses to who in his classes smoked which cigarettes. _

_It's an arrangement that works for them: the quirky sadist and the bored masochist, they don't want or need a name for it and it would make it too real, more real than the puzzles he had set up for Sherlock, who obediently solved them like a child trying to impress a parent, and more real than the people he'd killed over the years. All Sherlock cares about is that Moriarty doesn't ask why he smokes his way through a 20 pack before leaving, and he doesn't question why the consulting criminal giggles into his neck before he bites down into the pale flesh.  
_

Sherlock and Moriarty had a lot in common, like boredom to a destructive degree and the seemingly infinite supply of witty comebacks.

**xoxox**

**3. Mycroft Holmes**

_He'd always been the 'slower' of the brothers, and even when they met other children Sherlock couldn't shake that agging feeling of inadequacy. Nobody noticed of course, it faded with age into a more generic yet pathetic self loathing and he began to gather little things to use against Mycroft: his weight, his nose, superficial traits that both Holmes' knew meant little if anything to either of them. Sherlock had been fifteen when Mycroft discovered his 'little problems' after an overdose one June and had him locked up, neither boy ever forgot mummy's ashen face being stained with tears when she came home to her older son staring down the road with only apathy in his eyes, and a 90lbs Sherlock being dragged away covered in blood and white powder._

_The danger nights had gotten bad on more than one occasion, and sometimes Mycroft watched as John struggled to help. "I can get him into another unit" he'd suggested, and his concern had come across as cold to most people. Sherlock was just jealous, Mycroft had reasoned, that he wasn't so good at pretending he was like other people. It had taken them years to admit their secret feud in their own unspoken ways, and even 'goldfish' could be put on edge by the tension if the two men were in a room together._

Sherlock and Mycroft had a lot in common, like their parents DNA and brilliant minds that either awed or appalled people who didn't know them so well.

**xoxox**

**4. D.I Gregory Lestrade**

_It hadn't been easy, and initially he was a suspect until he won the D.I over with his deductions and and a cast iron alibi (rehab, Greg had raised an eyebrow at that admittedly). Getting Mycroft involved turned out to be a good idea as well, and in all fairness the cases kept him away from his self destruction for a couple of days at a time, and that was enough at first. Being able to put his skills to good use without getting boring answers was thrilling and sometimes dangerous, and Sherlock felt almost normal until he heard the whispers that started behind his back "freak" and gradually got used to them, now it was commonplace and neither Sally Donovan or Anderson bothered hiding their disdain for him even when the D.I snapped at them to "just shut up and get on with your job."_

_Sherlock was well aware of Greg's name and he wasn't sure why he refused to use it, Lestrade had often suspected that it had something to do with that moronic nurse he'd had in the unit but he never gave anything away except his wife's affair. "You're a mess, mate" he'd said, and Sherlock had shrugged, "who isn't a mess these days, Graham... you have poker chips and a pint, I have this." he'd mused and Greg hadn't bothered to correct him. _

Sherlock and Lestrade had a lot in common, like their sometimes inappropriate sarcasm and their addictive personalities.

**xoxox**

**5. Irene 'The Woman' Adler**

_He'd never seen a woman naked before, and he knew deep down in the seconds his eyes traced soft curves and creamy tan skin that he doesn't care if he never does again. It's not that she's unattractive because even as Sherlock admitted that day: she's hotter than hell, but it's wrong and seeing her like that only made him miss John even more. She flirts with him and instead of feeling more human, he just feels sad for her. "SHER-LOCKED" he whispered, over and over that night. Irene forgave his brutality as he punched in each letter with forced anger. All he felt was 'why?' because the first person to ever show a real interest in him was so far out of his comfort zone that he didn't know how to react to her.  
_

_He had a stray cat follow him around once, she looked like her and in that moment Sherlock wondered if reincarnation was plausible. The look in their eyes was too similar, but then the cat was run over and Irene turned out to be alive and the detective was lost again, doubting himself. "I am sorry, Ms Adler" he'd said once, finally meeting her eyes the last time they were face-to-face, "I never did change your text alert" and The Woman had smirked and told him she was wrong about him being a virgin after all. "What about Mycroft, were you right about him at least?" He'd asked, but she refused to comment._

Sherlock and Irene had a lot in common, like the way they manipulate and play off each other and their shared value of intellect over money or power.

**xoxox**

**1. John Watson/The Truth is Out**

_He hasn't eaten in four days, maybe five, but that's really nothing out of the ordinary for him. He knows John is getting concerned about him because he's threatening to call Mycroft if he doesn't stop playing all three movements of Shumann's violin concerto every day starting at 2am. Sherlock doesn't even know what's happening to him, he was always cranky without a case but this was something else entirely and he found himself tearing little chunks out of his skin with his nails at night just to have something to help him focus because after all, old habits never truly die. The evidence is littered across alabaster skin - twenty four years (on and off) worth of destroyed flesh._

_"I envied the people who earned your love, because I never worked out how to do it. Certain chemicals would've worked but it wouldn't be right... and you keep me right, John Watson." Sherlock's voice was low and John could've sworn he detected a tremble under the forced calm. John opened his mouth, stance defensive, ready to tell his best friend how absurd he was being. A sharp look backed him down then Sherlock, satisfied that he wouldn't be interrupted, continued his speech: "truth is, I also envied you... your ability to get your point across without having to worry that you may offend everybody in the room, the way you stick to your morals and how you're not afraid to (a pause, Sherlock gathering his breath) afraid to... feel." _

Sherlock and John had a lot in common, like their battle scars and their fierce and unwavering loyalty to those Sebastian Moran would've described as 'pressure points' But Sherlock, although he was a 'great man', would rather have been a good one. Instead he's a freak, a monster, a machine and a former junkie. In limbo: on the side of the angels, Jim had said, but he was never quite good enough to be one.

The detective closed his eyes, he's half bent over, clutching the back of the chair as if it is the only thing keeping him upright. His face is paler than usual, and John notices the light sheen of sweat prickling his friends sharp features and making him look clammy and sick. "Sherlock...?" the concern in his voice makes the detective flinch and close his eyes against the overwhelming stimuli. This was the answer: his life was either overwhelming to the point where he needed to cut or find a decent case just to focus on one thing, or the kind of excruciating boredom that lead to drug overdoses and Moriarty's bed. There was no in between, but John was still talking, the words distorted and lower than usual and now that his defenses were down it took Sherlock a few seconds to remember the warning signs of low sugar levels combined with blood loss: everything seemed so hazy before he finally, inevitably passed out.

_Sherlock scrapes a fleck of blood off the back of his hand and tries again, collects his thoughts and tries to force them to make a little more sense because it's really too much and he's not used to this, "you're my pressure point." It was almost too simple, and yet the irony of it was hanging over them both like a fog. The asexual machine incapable of feeling love, was in love. With his straight best friend. A strangled laugh welled up from the detectives throat, sounding almost like a sob. John looked away, pretending to be suddenly interested on a small bloodstain on the table between them. _

_"Are you saying, Sherlock, that you love me?" he asked at last, voice low and tinged with concern, "because if you are then I need to know... how long...?"_

He came to with a pounding headache and the sickly sweet smell of sugary tea and buttered toast, sprawled on the sofa with cushions propping his legs up. With a groan, he rolled over and faced John.

"Better?" John asked.

"I was fine to begin with." Sherlock murmured hoarsely and John handed the younger man the cup of tea, with a long-suffering sigh filled with an exasperation he had only previously heard in Mycroft. The detective was reluctant, sipping his tea and grimacing at the amount of milk and sugar, it wasn't his usual but knew better than to argue when John was in 'doctor-mode' it was near impossible to reason with him.

"You never answered me, Sherlock." John murmured, "how long?"

A groan fell from Sherlock's lips and his features contorted into a pained expression; "since Baskerville..." he whispered, averting his eyes until he felt a strong, rough hand cup his chin to turn his face to look up at John. His eyes betrayed the emotion he'd been so adept at hiding, and John noted how vulnerable Sherlock looked as he peered up in surprise through dark curls plastered to his forehead. "Why didn't you tell me?" the doctor asked gently, earning a confused shrug and welling eyes.

"Well, Sherlock, you wouldn't have had to drug me with endorphins or earn anything... you earned my love a long time ago" it was a reply to an unspoken question, and without a second thought John pressed a chaste kiss to the detectives mouth because Sherlock and John had a lot in common, like their battle scars and their fierce and unwavering loyalty but despite their differences and the (sometimes harsh) opinions of others, John believed that Sherlock was a good man and for once that was all that really mattered.

**xoxox END xoxox**

**C&C is requested and adored, flames will be used to roast marshmallows.**


End file.
